


A Crumbling of Princely Composure

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Marauders' Era, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 11:17:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt:<br/>Surly prince Remus and hired help Sirius - smut encouraged<br/>True princes don’t come undone in the mouths of stable boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oh, How the Wine Talks

**Author's Note:**

> So this is basically the first fic I've written in EVER and I did it all for buttclub  
> Feedback is much appreciated and will earn my eternal affection.

“I did not see a thing, your grace,” Remus responded, honest eyes fixed on the Queen as he calmly attempted to tame the smirk that scratched the corners of his lips. Turning to look at Severus, the Lupin's ward, he fought the urge to gag as the scent of dung filled his nostrils, dead set on maintaining his princely composure.

The shitball pursed his lips and let a few short breaths burst out his nose, making him look altogether like a furious, feces-painted anteater. If Remus didn’t know better, he’d be convinced that he was doing this just to test his ability to maintain a cool demenor. “This castle has its fair share of help better suited for the trenches,” Snape drawled, slow and clear, almost as if the royal family was entirely too thick to understand normal human speech, “but I cannot fathom a single person finding this more hilarious than piece of godforsaken stable scum.”

Remus countered skillfully, automatically, playing the role of the diplomatic prince well. This was all a routine he’d learned by heart from sheer repetition. Sirius pranks Severus. Severus throws a fit. Remus cleans up the mess. He was soon dismissed by his mother on the condition that he questions the accused personally, doling out punishment if he found him guilty.

“You have to learn to be a king somehow,” she said with a sigh, her dissatisfaction for her son clearly present in her expression. Remus agreed to the conditions readily, exiting the throne room with a short bow, flashing a snide smile at the ward.

He didn’t bother making the trek down to the servants’ chambers, knowing whole-heartedly that the stable boy was fully responsible. In truth, on the right night, after the right amount of wine, he would readily confess that it was he who gave Sirius Black the key to Severus’s chambers, and perhaps he would even admit that he found the whole scenario rather amusing. But tonight, he made his way back to his room, removed a stack of aged books from under his bed, and taking a seat at the old, wooden desk. A prince should spend his spare time training, wooing the kingdom, mingling with the court, but Remus had never been good at those things. He spent his time reading foreign novels, predicting the best places to plant a corn crop, trying to put his thoughts into words.

Hours later, a candlestick and a half after the sun had set, Remus rubbed his eyes, tired from focusing on faded words in dim candlelight. He allowed his head to rest in his hands and his mind to wander, landing on his friendship, if it could be called that, with the stable boy he defended tonight. Sirius Black, formerly of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, was disowned a few years ago after which he came to settle as a stable boy for the King. Though he had been offered many positions of higher class, Sirius staunchly proclaimed his love for physical labor, refusing all of the offers. However, Remus believed that he intentionally held the position as a low blow to his former family. If he was a shame before he was disowned, imagine the agony his parents felt at night when they thought about the fact that they managed to produce someone so _common_. This was the crux of their relationship. Neither Sirius nor Remus quite fit the mold they were created to fill.

At the sound of the door banging open, Remus jolted awake. The smell of alcohol reached him well before he fully registered the dark form making its way into the room pausing to brace itself on a nearby bookcase. The figure stepped into the candlelight, placing a flagon of wine onto the table. After noting the dramatic way the flickering candle made shadows dance across Sirius’s delicate, aristocratic features, Remus piled together his books and notes, placing them gently on the window sill, not trusting Sirius’s impaired coordination.

The stable boy just smiled, so wide only a drunk could manage it. The facets of Remus that made the king and queen question his princely abilities were the very same things that convinced Sirius that the prince was worth his time and energy – his obsession with history, his poor attempts at hiding his ink stained fingers, his utter inability to joust, his strange fascination with the East; Sirius neither shared nor understood these aspects of Remus, but he thought the prince wore them well.

Their moments together were few and far between, but Sirius has always felt almost inexplicably attracted to Remus. From the second he accepted the position of stable boy, he knew that he and Remus were destined to be friends. He could spot another fish out of water from a mile away. There was this look in the prince’s eye that told Sirius he was itching for a break in the monotony of courtly life, and Sirius was more than happy to oblige.

Remus wasn’t sure if he had any friends, but if had to choose one, he would give the title to it was Sirius – the only person his age who wasn’t afraid to kick him in the ass every once in a while. Sirius, on the other hand, had more friends than he could count. High borns found him alluring, dangerous, and mysterious – the boy the Blacks cast out. At first, commoners feared him, the stable boy raised in a castle, but Sirius put an end to that quickly with his easy smiles and readiness to share his rations with the children of the servants.

“You’re a shitty prince,” Sirius slurred, crash landing on the edge of the desk. “I’ve come for my questioning.”

Remus rolled his eyes, glad he’d taken the time to move his belongings. “And you’re a piss-poor servant,” he quipped, standing up and moving to sit on the bed, opposite of Sirius. “I won’t always be around to pick up your messes, you know.” He was referring, of course, to his betrothal to Duchess Nymphadora Tonks, cousin of Sirius.

“If you had to get tethered to one of my relatives, I’m glad it’s her,” he slurred, drunkenly taking the plunge into an area neither of them would delve while sober. “I’m indifferent,” said Remus with a shrug, princely façade firmly in place.

“Liar.”

“Sod off.”

Filled to the brim with liquid courage, Sirius let harsh truths drip from his lips. “I’ve seen you practice with bow and sword. You spend more time with your eyes on the arms master’s arse than on his form.”

Remus’s jaw dropped as he took a few moments to process the statement, shocked that Sirius would be so frank and appalled at his nerve. Rage bubbled in the prince, starting in his chest and bursting out his mouth. “You can’t speak to me like that. I’m a _prince_! I am engaged to be _married_!” Remus spat, utterly indignant.

Eyebrows rose as Sirius retorted. “You’re a prince, which is not yet a king. You’re engaged, which is not yet married. I’m fairly certain that I can say anything I’d like.” Remus huffed and began to open his mouth once more but Sirius, having had enough of this fit, placed both hands square on his shoulders, pushing him back into the mattress, holding him in place until he ceased to struggle.

Remus’s body sagged into the mattress in reluctant defeat. “You owe me. For your rudeness and for the pain of helping you out of every hole you manage to dig yourself into,” he snarled, bratty and offended, in true princely fashion. Sirius just nodded, smirking, hovering over the Remus, breath ghosting across his face.

Suddenly understanding, Remus scooted back onto the bed slowly, unsure, propping himself up on his elbows as Sirius made quick work of his trousers. He crawled up the bed to nuzzle Remus’s soft cock through the rough cloth of his undergarments, sucking soft, wet spots along the fabric.

Remus hardened in response, determination settling into the shadows of his face. He would maintain his dignity. He was a prince. He might let this happen, but he would _not_ become a stable boy’s play thing. Before he finished his inner pep talk, Sirius had pulled the fabric away and began sucking a trail of small bruises along Remus’s inner thigh, cupping his balls as he placed short, sloppy licks along Remus’s length. Stifling a grown, unable to maintain _complete_ nonchalance, Remus growled. “Get on with it, Black.” Face saved.

Sirius obeyed, gently sucking the tip, working the shaft into his mouth slowly, inch by inch. Remus let out a soft sigh as Sirius began to bob, and it went straight to stable boy’s dick. Placing his calloused hands on the prince’s smooth thighs, he kneaded them roughly, fingernails marking small half-moons across the flesh.

Remus’s resolution remained strong. No matter how fast he moved, no matter how deftly his tongue swiveled around his cock, no matter how warm and wet and _oh fuck it_. Remus let out an honest-to-god moan, blushing, balancing on a single elbow to tangle his hand in Sirius’s hair, thrusting upward. Gagging slightly at the sudden movement, Sirius pulled back, the prince’s prick slipping lazily out of his mouth with a soft pop. He could feel his own dick throbbing and he ground it into the mattress, desperate for friction. He moved a hand to cup Remus’s balls as he licked a long single swipe from base to tip, pausing to look up at the prince through his lashes before plunging down, taking the entire length in at once. He worked his hands into his own trousers, tugging roughly, frantically.

Last remnants of composure reduced to shambles by sheer sensory overload, Remus fell back against the mattress with a loud groan, squeezing his lids shut, arching shamelessly into Sirius’s mouth. Eyes watering, trying not to choke, Sirius resumed his bob with increasing vigor as Remus thrust into his mouth repeatedly, eventually putting his hands on the back of the stable boys head, fucking his mouth like it was the last thing he’d ever do. He came with yelp, holding Sirius’s head in place as he bucked his hips up, forcing him to swallow every last drop.

As he relaxed into the mattress, waves of his orgasm still rippling through his extremities, he tugged upward on Sirius’s shirt. The stable boy climbed up, resting his head on the prince’s chest, smiling as he listened to his pounding heartbeat and poor attempts at breathing, rubbing his forehead against Remus’s chest to wipe the sweat from his brow.

Sleepily, Remus planted a soft kiss into Sirius’s hair, breathing in the scent of dirt and hay. The stable boy pushed his still hard cock into Remus’s leg, desperate for attention, but the prince practically ignored the act. Sirius whined softly in request, only because you can’t exactly just ask royalty to suck you off. “In the morning,” Remus muttered, wrapping his arms around Sirius. Just before he fell asleep, he thought to himself _I really don’t give a damn about being princely_.

After Remus was sound asleep, Sirius crept back down to the servants’ quarters, jerking off silently, his mind entirely on the prince’s form, spread and writhing beneath his lips. He came with a soft sob, face buried in his pillow as a drunken sleep washed over him.


	2. Royal Focus, Royal Fuss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been weeks since the night that Sirius found his way into Remus's bedchambers, drunk and on a mission.  
> Since then, Remus has thrown himself into his training whole-heartedly  
> but despite all of his efforts to do as a prince should do, he struggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was intended to be a oneshot, but I got requests for a sequel.  
> I put them off until it just so happened that a sequel would fit the bill for one the prompts for my team over at the Winter Wolfstar Wank.  
> So, here you go.

Light stung Remus’s eyes as he tromped from the castle to the royal training grounds, regretting his previous night’s foray into the dusty volumes he’d nicked from the priest’s archive. He wasn’t even religious, so he couldn’t blame his weariness on some otherworldly desire to commune with God. It was a fault woven into the very fabric of his being – if there was a book, and that book was big enough, old enough, and with an interesting enough cover, he would consume it’s every word, shelving its contents in some strange recess of his mind that may never be accessed again. And for that reason he yawned as he crossed the dewy morning grass, mail clanking lightly with each step. He was a prince, and dawn practice was part of the princely routine.

The training grounds, all dust and posts, fogged with the scent of sweat and blood, were empty save for Sir Edgar Bones, the Lupins’ arms master. Remus’s mood lifted considerably, remembering that Severus was receiving visitation from some distant relative this morning and would therefore not darken the morning’s arms session with his greasy, hook-nosed visage and spiteful demeanor.

 Sir Edgar was young, as far as arms masters go, but he’d served the Lupins faithfully his entire life, proving his battle prowess and leadership abilities time and time again. His arms were crossed, his lips taught, and a single foot was extended, tapping absentmindedly, causing small puffs of dust to climb into the air.

“You’re late, Prince Remus.”

“A prince is never late, Sir Edgar,” Remus retorted, pushing open the gate and entering the ring. “You’re early.”

Sir Edgar pursed his lips and squared himself to the prince. “You’re late and you’re underdressed.”

Remus grinned, running his hand over the light mail draped across his chest. “Sir Edgar, don’t you think I’m a bit old to require full attire for a little pell practice?” Sir Edgar scoffed. “You’re a prince. The _only_ prince. I must look out for your safety.”

 _And myself likewise_ , Remus thought.

Of course, he was referring to the fact that the practice plate armor was stored in a small shed next to the stable, and stables were often inhabited by stable boys, and a certain stable boy has been nothing but a problem for Remus.

On account of said stable boy’s accusation that Remus spends more time staring at Sir Edgar’s arse than at his form, Remus had threw himself into his training whole-heartedly for the first time in years. It was as if suddenly, years of rolling through mindless training exercises slotted into place. He progressed through warm-ups with practiced ease, dusty areas of his muscle memory alighting, forcing his body to move with an instinctual grace. The court stated that he was a late bloomer, that they’d always known Remus would develop into a true prince – little did they know that these improvements, these increases in princely behavior, came from the most disgraceful of sources during the most dishonorable of acts.

True princes didn’t come undone in the mouths of stable boys.

“Bad night’s sleep, no mail, no longsword,” Sir Edgar stated, tossing a heavy, rebated sword to the prince who snapped it from the air with ease. He was annoyed, for rebated swords are the toys of children, not the weapons of a knight, but he was too tired to protest. Without complaint, he began to run through warm up pell drills under Sir Edgar’s watchful eye.

Despite his lack of sleep, today was a good day for Remus’s form. His movements were fluid and elegant, despite the extra weight that came with a rebated sword. Over and over, his blows were clean and Sir Edgar expressed his delight with the prince’s progress through small inhales of appreciation.

Bored stiff while running through a particularly complicated sequence for the umpteenth time, Remus let his eyes wander across the field, desperate for novel input. When he spotted a mop-haired form slouching against the side of the stable, eyes transfixed in his direction, he faltered. The practice sword ricocheted of the pell, knocking him square in the shoulder. Remus hissed, dropping the sword into the dust.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you were plated,” Sir Edgar said with a smug chuckle. _No, this wouldn’t have happened if Black didn’t have the audacity to stare me down from across the arena. This wouldn’t have happened if Black hadn’t worked his way into my castle, my thoughts, my bed._

_This was Black’s fault, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let him win._

“This wouldn’t have happened if you had just let me use the longsword in the first place! What kind of arms master are you anyway? I am a _prince_. You serve _me._ ” Remus words were hot andknew Sir Edgar didn’t deserve to be the target of his anger, but his reaction was one of strategy. Black wants to dismiss his skill with a sword, accusing him of being more interested in the body of his arms master? Fine, but now that Remus has his attention, he will prove Black wrong. He’s a prince. A Lupin. Sword fighting is in his blood.

Remus plucked a longsword from the weapons rack at random, dropping its sheath into the dust. Ignoring the protests of Sir Edgar, he began to attack the pell with unbridled intensity. Minutes passed as Remus focused every ounce of his attention on the assult, every muscle in his body on the pell, hacking away with the most intricate and complicated sequences he could dredge up, racking through his years of training in search of the most fancy footwork, the most dangerous blows, the sound of metal on wood drowning out the arms master’s shouts. The show was flashy, ostentatious, but a fine display of skill. He could feel sweat streaming down his body, his hair clumping at the base of his neck, his muscles burning. Shards of metal and hunks of wood flew from the pell, clinking against his light mail and finding their home in the dust.

He eventually brought his body to rest, tossing the sword into the dirt. He turned to face the stable, squinting into the sun. No body rested against the side of the stable. Sirius was nowhere to be seen and the show was a waste. Remus swore.

Remus couldn’t recall the last time he had seen Sir Edgar so utterly enraged. Both the sword and the pell were ruined by his reckless bravado. As punishment, Remus would be required to practice the one activity he hated the most – jousting.  Remus put up more of a fight than usual, but Sir Edgar remained firm in his decision, oblivious to Remus’s prompt change in demeanor, his return to the whiny, meek, selfish prince of months ago– the one that was utterly uninterested in training, the one that had disappeared since the night Sirius came to Remus’s chambers. Finally, Remus submitted, swallowing his pride and making his way to the stables – the one thing he wanted to do _less_ than joust.


	3. Lofty Undoings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a run-in with Sirius and James, Remus believes that his day has been ruined.  
> Spoiler alert: It has not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M

Remus pushed open the heavy stable door with reluctance, nervous energy leaking from his pores, eyes closed tightly. On the count of three, he licked his lips and entered the stable at a fast clip, trying his hardest not to survey his environment for fear of encountering Sirius. He made a beeline for the nearest stall, which housed the prince’s dapple grey jousting steed. A temperamental warmblood destrier. Witherwings, named for the intricate pattern of spots that somewhat resembled feathers, was hardly a castle favorite. In fact, he would only let two people mount him at all, which was part of the reason Remus liked him in the first place. Sure, he was more agile than most horses of his size but there was something very pleasing about sitting atop a steed and knowing that you one of the only people capable of controlling it. The other, of course, was Sirius Black.

Sensing Remus’s anxious state, Witherwings snorted loudly, backing up on his stall. “For the love of Merlin,” Remus whispered voice harsh, “It’s fine, I swear, but we must make haste.” He set about readying Witherwings, a task that _should_ be the responsibility of the stable boy but Remus would be damned if he was actually going to go in search of Black. He had managed to secure the saddle and move to the stirrups when uncouth laughter filled the stable. _Damn_.

 “Well, well, well. The prince came down off of his high horse, quite literally it seems.”

Remus whipped around, bringing himself face-to-face with the bespeckled visage of James Potter, son of an archduke and Sirius’s go-to partner-in-crime. James scaled the stall wall and perching atop of it, hands clinging to the rafters for balance. Remus tried to proceed with readying Witherwings as normal, but the even thuds of James’s swinging feet that echoed through the stable were a constant reminder of his presence.

“I was not aware that royal digits were capable of such common tasks,” James drawled, swinging his feet up onto the wall. “I mean, a little bird told me that you can be _very_ ignoble, but I chalked it up to braggart’s tongue,” he sneered, sliding along the wall. “All that effort put into raising you right and proper only to have you go and –“

“James.” The name echoed throughout the stable as Sirius stepped into view, shaking his dark curls. “Sod off why don’tcha.”

“Ey, just looking out for my best mate,” James responded, tone suddenly chipper as he hopped off onto the ground with a clatter. He moved to Sirius, clapping him hard on the shoulder. “S’not often I get a chance to intimidate someone, much less a prince.” Sirius rolled his eyes, pulling James towards the exit. “Let the kinglette be, Prongsy. Royalty breeds delicate creatures.” His tone was bright, as was usually the case when he was in the company of the Potter boy.

In a sudden burst of courage, Remus stood and turned to face the pair. “I don’t need your rescuing, Black. I am perfectly capable of fighting my own battles,” Remus spat. The frustration he’d buried during the past several months built up in his stomach, clawing its way out of his mouth. “I don’t need anything from you, actually. I’ve even prepared Witherwings myself, if you haven’t noticed,” he exclaimed, voice nearly a yell. “You’re good for nothing, Black. Nothing.” Despite his grandiose attempt at conviction, his words rang sour with untruth. Some part of Remus hoped that Sirius would be able to see through his façade.

With a huff, Remus took his leave, seizing Witherwings’s reins and marching defiantly, chin high. In the courtyard, he stamped his foot into a pothole covered lightly with foliage. All balance and faux-composure lost, he fell forward, landing squarely in a pile of fresh dung. A jangly duet of laughter filled the air and he could feel his blood pressure rising. Consciously, he knew the trap had been set for Severus, who was due to cross the courtyard, head high while attempting to impress his guests, but that didn’t change the fact that he was currently face-first in a pile of maneur courtesy of Sirius Black.

In sharp contrast to the ease of the morning, afternoon practice was an absolutely disaster. His body had been drained from his flashy show of machismo, his mind was tired from a lack of sleep, and his heart was heavy with the rancorous laughter of the stable boy. Most of the time, his blows missed entirely. When he did manage to hit the target, his lances snapped and he slipped from his saddle. His performance was so poor that Sir Edgar’s sharp annoyance molted into pity, and he called off the practice after only an hour.

As Remus returned Witherwings to the stable, he attempted to keep his mind focused on the secret cache of books he kept beneath his bed. History books, record books – straightforward, uncomplicated, and almost completely unable of causing any emotional stress. This is why he collected the books in the first place. It wasn’t as if combing through them was mindless, but quite the opposite. It occupied his mind and kept him from lingering on those aspects of his life that don’t actually improve when simply thought about but tend to take up the majority of one’s mental energy. Mindlessly, silently, Remus ran through the stable routine. He took comfort in the simple task, taught nerves loosening as he combed Witherwings’s mane.

Sirius, nestled soundly in the hayloft, awoke to the prince’s soft humming. Vision still foggy with sleep, he rolled over to observe the scene though a rotten hole in the floor of the loft. Remus moved to and fro, running through the nightly chores that Sirius had intentionally neglected with stubborn intentions of proving the prince’s accusations to be absolutely correct. _Useless? Sure thing, your majesty._

When the prince paused directly below Sirius, hands on his hips as he admired his work, pleased grin plastered on his face, the stable boy acted on impulse. Quickly, he grabbed a handful of hay and mud, chucking it through the hole. The clump landed precisely on target with a repulsive plop. Remus let out a sharp yelp, forcing Sirius to roll over and bury his head in a haystack in attempt to muffle his laughter.

This moment of private joy was crassly interrupted by a pair of pale hands slamming onto his shoulders, rolling him over, forcing their eyes to meet. Pinned to the floor beneath the prince, Sirius didn’t bother to struggle. “You think you’re quite funny, don’t you?” Remus snarled pupils wide, clumps of dirt and hay still clinging to his auburn hair. As the stable boy opened his mouth to eke out some form of defense, he found a hand clamped roughly over it. “Nothing you say pleases me. Don’t speak.” Remus was filled with a fortitude that Sirius had never seen in the prince before. His voice was sure, his movements were strong, and his face was set in a manner that didn’t allow Sirius to question his conviction.

Intrigued and impressed, Sirius fought back, his fresh muscles easily overpowering the prince’s weary limbs. They tumbled through the loft, silent except for the occasional hiss or grunt, sweat welling on their skin, causing hay to cling to the backs of their necks, the crooks of their thighs. Remus could feel the frustrated knot in his belly loosen, untangling itself through the hard motion of man-to-man combat.

Jamming Remus’s shoulders to the floor, Sirius chuckled. “You sure fight dirty, my prince.”

Remus snapped at his hands wildly, struggling as he rasped out “As I am sure you have noticed, Black, I’m not exactly the most regal of the lot.”

Panting, the two boys rested for a moment, sweat glistening, the soft static of second-guessed actions buzzing around their skulls as they stared at each other, the full force of their position smacking against their consciousness. Sirius gulped audibly and lowered himself slightly, forcing Remus to feel a hardness against his thigh. A moment of nervousness burst through them both, Remus managing to wrangle the panic back first. False bravado worked its way from his gut to his limbs, twitching them into action.

_Fuck it._

Remus’s hand planted itself firmly on the stable boy’s chest, pushing him back as he propped himself up on a single elbow. His hand trailed southward, coming to rest on the faint tenting of Black’s trousers. Grinding his palm down, he flicked his eyes up to Sirius’s face just in time to see eyes flutter shut and a mouth dropping open slightly as a fast breath escaped from his lips. When their eyes locked once again, Remus flipped the him over roughly. Atop the stable boy, the desire pooled in his stomach made its way to his groin, dick swelling in response. He thrust forward slowly, head of his cock pressing firmly against the underside of Sirius’s jaw.

Straightening up, Remus probed forward slightly, the stable boy’s soft swallows causing his need to grow into almost a physical pain. Eyes locked, Remus simpered. “Any complaints, Black?

A quick shake of the head later, Sirius was smirking as Remus’s fingers made quick work of his trousers, shucking them onto the floor. He then watched as the prince stood to extract a small vial of oil from his pocket before removing his own slacks. Mail-clad from the waist up, Remus nuzzled the stable boy’s cock, placing small licks up and down its length before wrapping his fingers around it, rubbing slowly as Sirius writhed beneath him, whimpering as Remus ran his thumb deftly over the head.

Remus prepared himself quickly, coating both his fingers and Sirius’s cock with the amber oil, pumping and thrusting his hands in synchrony.

It wasn’t romantic by any stretch of the imagination. This was a prince on a revenge mission, a stable boy with a deep-seated longing, and nothing more.

Aligning himself carefully above Sirius, Remus used one hand to firmly grip the stable boy’s chin, forcing his gaze upward. “You have been my undoing,” he growled, “And as so, I will undo you.”

He pushed back, dropping with the force of gravity, taking in Sirius’s entire length in a single motion – quick, noisy, and comprehensive.

Any pain Remus felt was subdued by Sirius’s face -

completely and totally

undone.


End file.
